Trade Mistakes
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: "Two broken people surely have no hope of fixing one another. It is simple logic. She supposes that their only hope is to trade mistakes." Rumpel/Belle. One-shot.


**Trade Mistakes**

**DISCLAIMER: OUaT isn't mine. **

**Beta'd by my lovely Old Romantic. **

**Belle appears so perfect and beautiful. But is it really so? No one is that freakin' sweet and lovely and nice. And can a broke person fix another who just as, if not more, "broke?"**

**Yes, this title/prompt came from the Panic! At the Disco song from their latest album, **_**Ballad of Mona Lisa**_**. You should check it out. The lyrics are very clever poetry.**

**Additional note: I didn't go with the canon and use Belle's father's name from the show. I know ABC is owned by Disney, but the similarities/allusions between the cartoon movies and the show for some reason annoy me. Can't really explain why. But it's not Maurice. I wanted to shake things up.**

**-XXX-**

Princesses were supposed to be perfect. No one really knew _why_, per sae, only that it was true, one-hundred-percent factual. Princesses were the epitome of good breeding, good manners, good figures, excellent education, and, naturally, beauty.

Belle, of all princesses, knows this. After all, her name is Beauty. It was something Toham, her elder brother by ten years, had called her since she was a child, tossing her playfully in the air until she shrieked with laughter. It was something of a private joke between them. As the story went, when presented with his pink and prune-ish new baby sister, the ten-year-old prince stared, incredulous, asking, _"And you named her for _beauty_?"_ Everyone found this to be very funny indeed, and the name stuck. A name she certainly loathed, for Belle never thought of herself as one specifically, and she was resentful toward those who used it without express permission. Except when coming from Toham. Toham saw no limits to the nickname, it followed her in every condition. When her round face was streaked with mud, it was always _"Beauty." _Even when she ripped her dresses, was missing a boot, and had hay strewn through her thick brown snarles of hair, knees blackened, sweaty from a day of riding, there it was. _"Beauty." _

Her mother, Lady Claire, would then throw a quick fit, fussing over her youngest-and only-child's appearance. Toham would simply laugh. Their father (the mutual tie between them, as Claire was Toham's stepmother, and almost eight years his senior), usually was not around for these occasions. And if her were, well, Belle assumed he'd laugh too. He and Toham shared a similar temperament.

At least, they did until several years ago. "_Several years ago" _was when Belle, called Beauty, was fifteen. The year she got her first real horse, a true steed named Noble. The year marriage negotiations began. The year Toham died.

It was an accident, of course, as these things always were. He'd taken Belle riding. The afternoon was a dark one-clouds were rolling in from the north. One moment it was slightly overcast, the next they were being pelted with stones of water. The horses, frightened by the wind and the flashes of sky-fire, reared, shuffled uneasily. Toham set them on a course toward home. But he forgot about the river-

-and forgot that during rainstorms, it was always quick to fill. He was not prepared cross.

The water raged, white and noise and froth, breaking against daggers of stones that lined the bank. The pair stared, gripping the reigns tightly as they processed the scene. Finally, the elder said, "I shall go across first, Beauty. Make sure it is safe. Your Noble is a big horse, but I fear he may not make the ride. I will go home, if he cannot, and fetch the work horses. They're large enough to ford the waters."

"Oh, no, Toham," she insisted. "Noble can make it, I promise. Let me try. He's a good horse, he'll pull."

Her brother peered uneasily into the iron clouds above. "I…I shan't let you ride him."

"But-"

He cut across. "I'll go. You take Greatheart," he nodded to his own beast, "and I'll try to ford Noble."

They dismounted, switched, and set off, crossing tentatively. Almost halfway across, and they felt quite well. The horses quivered, nervous as the water lapped at their chests, but they surged on. Belle laughed, threw back her damp locks. It was nearly as hard as Toham made it out to be. Greatheart's left front hoof had just touched the bank of the other side, Belle, grinning widely, when a yelp caught her ear. She turned back, bucked slightly as Greatheart fully mounted the shore of the river.

Noble had reared, raised on his hind legs, head tossing. He thrashed about the waves, yelping loudly. Toham gripped the reigns tightly. Even from a distance, Belle could see his knuckles whiten. He was just over halfway through the river. Belle darted into the waters, till she was up to her knees, the whiteness rushing around her, as far as she dared. Toham's eyes flashed as he yelled for her to halt as he simultaneously attempted to calm the stallion. But Toham's booming voice did the opposite; Noble ultimately tossed the prince from the saddle. He landed in the froth ten feet from the horse, who had quickly moved to cross the bank. Belle screamed, running into the noise. She was soon up to her waist, then treading water. Over the rush of water, she could barely make her brother out. In seconds, she found the dull red of his waistcoat and swam. Frozen limbs screamed as she pushed them forward.

For a brief second, she had him. He was in her hands.

But only for a second.

Later, when King Malory's men found her downstream, huddled against Greatheart (Noble had bolted, and would be found weeks later by a blacksmith who lived on the border of their land and King George's), they could not understand her halting description of the events that transpired.

The river was dragged with nets. For weeks, knights road the length of the river, stopping at nearby villages. It was hoped that perhaps he may have washed up on shore and walked to the nearest speck of civilization. But then a month passed, and those hopes began to fade. Toham was never found.

Belle, called Beauty, was then never to be called Beauty again. King Malory and Lady Claire looked upon her with deep sorrow already; all knew that the pet name was Toham's creation. So…Belle it was.

**-XXX-**

For months she was bitter. Noble was banned from her sight, and Greatheart faired little better. She was in a blackened gloom for weeks and weeks; not even the onset of spring, nor the festivals, nor the summerly visit of the players could break her mood. Belle was a snappish creature. Any mention of Toham reduced her to a vicious shadow of her former self. Few in the household knew what to do with her.

Lady Claire observed quietly, as she always did, acknowledging to herself the simple root of the problem-guilt. The girl obviously blamed herself for the accident. Once the attending ladies caught on, she insisted on their silence. No amount of empty "_oh-on-of-course-not-my-dears" _would prevent the thought. The seed was planted. The only one who could dig Belle out from her grave of misery was Belle herself.

Claire waited patiently.

Then came the Wars.

**-XXX-**

Six years passed from Toham's death to when the Ogre Wars hit their borders. Belle took up post in the war room. Lady Claire had departed a mere three years before. Malory was a brilliant general as ever-he had, after all, planned the successful capture of Fontbonne's fortress for King Leopold-but his head was still muddled with mourning. His daughter now saw to it that those sad musing were cast aside. This new occupation eased her own guilt, which had faded considerably to be replaced with sorrow following Claire's untimely passing.

She threw herself passionately into the work of strategy and battle plans, ordering supplies and directing military camps. The council soon found that she had a talent for it-a talent that had not been missed by the practical Toham. Belle was determined to do good by her brother.

And her people.

Months passed. She dropped fussy day-dresses for squarely cut, simple gowns of cotton, wool, and the like, in bland colours. Mornings began early, evening ran late. Her studies were forgotten. Meals skipped. Neither Noble nor Greatheart were ridden-she was planning a war.

In time, she was grateful for the distraction. The last six years had been broken ones for the nation, and for the royal family in particular. Belle, no longer called Beauty, needed this war.

But her people did not. And soon, it became clear that they needed some help. Of a…supernatural nature.

Many spoke of an impish man who lived to the north and was willing to grant almost any wish-for a price. Malory was willing to pour buckets and barrels of gold upon this legendary mage. Or offer animal sacrifice, immunity from opposing nations. Anything for the sake of his people.

What he wasn't willing to do was offer his daughter. But the imp insisted. It would be Belle. Or nothing.

The broken princess.

He did not know that at the time, naturally. Else he might've taken the gold. For who would want such a…a…

Belle isn't entirely sure what she is. And she has not the slightest idea why Rumpelstiltskin picked her over all her father had to offer. She's a plain, drab little bird. Boring, to boot. Weird, everyone says so, with her constant reading, constant questioning. She likes answers. She wonders too much. She is a great deal of trouble.

Which he tells her, less than a week into their arrangement, grumpily over a breakfast table. It turns out the fearsome imp of the north is not a morning person. This suddenly makes him seem significantly less fearsome, and far more of a person. A person who has particular habits, who likes his tea with one sugar and a slash of cream, enjoys his toast with strawberry jam, a fellow who needs his socks darned more often than not, a man who dislikes most greens. He also has an aversion to sheep, books with pictures, and her tower bedroom.

_But _he does indeed have a darker aspect about him. One that Belle is very careful to tread around.

It's when she finds those small-ish children's clothes that she begins to just make it all out; Belle begins to discern the source of darkness. He's broken, just as she is.

Two broken people surely have no hope of fixing one another. One cannot hammer a headless nail when the handle of the tool necessary for the action is splintered beyond repair. It is simple logic.

She supposes that their only hope is to trade mistakes. Show him that not all princesses were necessarily perfect. Tell him her woes. And prove that no amount of "good breeding" could stop a person from feeling all the depths of ill-tempered pain.

**-XXX-**

**Please review! **


End file.
